


Observed of All Observers

by sphinxvictorian



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: M/M, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-13
Updated: 2011-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-24 13:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphinxvictorian/pseuds/sphinxvictorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horatio yearns for Hamlet while they are at university. Prequel to the play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observed of All Observers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thia (Jennaria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennaria/gifts).



Behind the pillar of stone I stand, transfixed by his beauty. The pale winter sun glints on his red-blond hair as he bends over the book, which is chained like a wild animal to its shelf. Do the priests really think that the books will fly away on their own, I wonder to myself. No, more likely, they fear one of my fellow students partaking too deeply of the knowledge they contain. Then, being unable to relinquish that knowledge, he will steal it away under his cloak to be indulged in at greater length.

Hamlet is one such student who would be tempted. He drinks in the philosophies of the ancients as though there will never be enough knowledge to slake his thirst. Hunkering over the books as he is doing now, he resembles a large and beautiful eagle, his aquiline nose held close to the page, making sure that not a word escapes him.

My own studies suffer when he is near. The words of Plato and Aristotle fade to insignificance in the presence of his wit and beauty. I feel myself to be a dark shadow in his sunny presence.

There are others who fawn upon him, not only for his beauty but for his power. He is the Crown Prince of Denmark, and likely to become king when his father dies, though, as he says, that day will be long in coming for his father is lively and in good health. Those two toadies, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, writhe around him like oiled serpents, obsequious and desirous of his good word. They too are students, at least nominally, but it is my opinion that they are really spies set on him by his mother. To what end they plot, I am not really sure, but they constantly attempt to woo him away from his studies, and away from Wittenberg. Away from me.

On those rare occasions when he can free himself from them and he is not studying, he turns either to solitude or to me. This was not always so. For a time he did not notice me, lurking in his shadow as I was. But then came the shining day when his eyes met mine over the heads of the other students during a symposium and we shared a sardonic smile over the Alexandrine rhetoric that Giovanni Miletus was idiotically spouting. Hamlet’s eyes rolled and I, with difficulty, smothered a chuckle. I expected no more until that moment when, outside the hall, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. He asked me to come and talk with him. There followed three of the most blissful hours I have spent to this day.

Our conversation was easy and light. We shared wine, bread, and cheese, and mocked our fellow students quite ruthlessly. My lord Hamlet has a razor-like wit and he wields it without conscience against the enemies of truth and right. The things he says about his family and their court are insightful and politically astute. He will make a great king someday. At any rate, on that day, those three hours passed all too quickly. Then his attention was claimed by his studies once more.

But from that day to this, I have been his confidant, the only one to whom he feels he can speak the truth. He tells me I am the companion of his bosom. He says that he treasures my abilities of intellect and truthfulness above those of any of our other fellows. My heart reels with pleasure as I write this. Yet I am also filled with sadness, for the real truth of my heart I can never tell him.

For it is not only my heart and soul that stir whenever he is near, which rise up and cry, “Mine own!”. There is a deeper, more urgent, and baser need which surges within me whenever he comes into view. I feel warmth and a stirring that I dare not answer except in my most private moments, hidden in the dovecote on the roof of our dormitory. There I respond to my body’s urgings, as quickly and quietly as I am able, thinking always of him. In guilt, I slink away afterwards to the bathhouse, where I try to sponge away all traces of my need. This act is not frequent, but I grieve for it. I pray to God to forgive me my base and unnatural desire, and to scourge me of it, so that my love for my lord Hamlet can be pure again.

I sorrow that my baser nature always arises again, and the cycle repeats itself. Just now, it is better; I am content merely to be in my lord’s presence. He turns his head from his book and smiles at me, gestures for me to come closer. He points to a passage in Ovid, mildly ribald in nature, and winks at me. I blush and he laughs, elbowing my ribs. Then he loops an arm about my shoulders and walks me off to the next lecture.

Just as we arrive in the cloister, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are standing in our way. Bowing sinuously and hissing their greetings, they insert themselves between us, forcing Hamlet away from me and over into a corner, whispering as they go. I watch, furious at the interruption to our closeness.

Suddenly, Hamlet stops, his face white and still. The two others continue walking for a moment, almost comically, before realizing that he is no longer between them. They turn, coming back, looks of obsequious sorrow on their faces. I draw closer, trying to hear their words.

Hamlet refuses to move, despite their entreaties. Finally, he shakes himself, his eyes a little wild, and says, in commanding tones, “Leave me now. I require no assistance.” His voice grows louder. “I will ready myself to return to Elsinore. Your mission is completed, my lords. I will not need you to accompany me. I am no weak woman to be coddled, Rosencrantz!” He shouts this last, wrenching his arm away from the man.

They remonstrate again, but he is not to be moved. They give up soon and take their leave. As soon as they have gone, my lord sags. He does not fall, but he stretches out an arm blindly to find something that will support him. I hurry forward and catch his hand in mine, grasping his elbow and leading him to a stone bench near the wall.

His eyes are staring at nothing as he grips my hand hard. “He is dead.” The simple sentence falls from his mouth like a lead weight. I wonder who he can mean.

“My father. Dead.”

I cannot think of what to say, so I squeeze his hand in sympathy. The King of Denmark, dead. What can such a vital man have died of? I saw him once, when he processed through my little German town on his way to visit the ruler of our small principality, with whom he sought alliance. He was a great warrior and a great king, by all accounts. There had been no indications from my lord’s behavior that his father was ill.

Hamlet loves his father, possibly more than I have ever known a man to do. He strives always to please the King and to be worthy of his admiration and love. It is a constant worry to him, that he is not the son his father wanted. Hamlet certainly is more of a scholar than a soldier, living in his intellect rather than in the real world. He excels with a rapier, but that is the only martial art which he has mastered. The basics of strategy are within his purview, but his knowledge has never been tested in battle. He feels that want of a warrior’s experience keenly and knows that he needs to acquire more experience, if he is to be an effective king.

But now, any improvements that he makes will never be seen by the King. His father is dead. Hamlet stands, wavering slightly. I stand with him.

“Shall I come with you to Denmark, my lord?”

He shakes his head, not in denial, but as though he is coming to himself again. Turning to me, he regards me uncertainly, almost as if he is unsure who I am. Then he quirks one side of his mouth up. “Ah, Horatio, my dear friend. You are such a comfort to me, but I must go alone. I am the heir to the throne, I believe. And I must return to claim my birthright. No more studies for me, my philosophical brother. Now I must set foot in the real world again, learn to take it by the throat and shake it until it surrenders –“ Tears begin to roll down his cheeks as the words fade from his lips. I help him along the corridors and up the winding stairs to my hidden place, the corner of the dovecote.

There I hold him in my arms at last, as he sobs out his grief, regret, anger, and pain. I dare only once to drop my lips onto his red-gold hair, and it is thankfully unnoticed. When after half an hour the sobs begin to subside, we lie there together in the gathering darkness. Silently, we listen to the rustle of the birds as they settle into their rest.

All too soon he rouses himself, pulls up and away from me, and stands, brushing at his clothes to remove the worst of the down and other detritus. He reaches out a hand to me and pulls me up. We can barely see each other’s faces, but he manages to find my cheek with his fingers and caresses it lightly once.

“You are the best of men, Horatio. Wise, intelligent, capable, and compassionate. It would behoove me well to send for you when I am gathering advisors around me. Would you come, I wonder? Give up your philosophy and enter the world of politics?”

I take his hand from my cheek and press the back of it, perhaps too fervently, to my lips. “My lord, I would follow you throughout the world. I will serve you in any capacity that you ask of me. You have but to name your desire.”

Pulling his hand gently away, he goes to the open door and turns, framed against the pale orange sky behind him. “I thought as much. Farewell, Horatio, my constant friend. I shall send for you when I need you, I promise.”

He is gone. I stay behind, leaning against the doorpost of the dovecote. I can still feel his body shaking against mine, warm and yet cold, and the feeling of his skin against my lips when I kissed his hand.

Now I must be patient while I wait for him to send for me. He has been gone for two months. I can hardly concentrate on my studies, I am so anxious for him. I have had only one letter from him and that was cursory, just letting me know that he’d arrived safely.

But the news that has made me the most anxious is the announcement of the marriage of Queen Gertrude, Lord Hamlet’s mother, to Hamlet’s uncle, Claudius. It is said that Claudius has taken the crown of Denmark for himself because the late king died too suddenly to declare an heir.

I must go. I must see him. Surely his need for a true friend must be great. I have told the university I will go, and they have given me leave.

Soon I shall see him again. This time we will never be parted. Either he will come back to Wittenberg with me, or I shall stay with him. I shall be his closest friend, advisor and councilor. For I like not the sound of this uncle of his, and I would fain leave my lord in his envious reach without protection.

So, my lord Hamlet, I come to see your father’s funeral.


End file.
